“This is my family coat of arms, such as it is,” Daniel remarked, “a stone castle bestriding a river.”

“Don’t say that!” Mr. Bhnh hissed.

“Why ever not?”

“We are entering into Traitor’s Gate!”

PAST THE NARROW APERTURE OF THEGate lay a pool vaulted over with a vast, fair stone arch. Some engineer had lately constructed a tide-driven engine there for raising water to a cistern in some higher building back in the penetralia of the citadel, and its fearsome grinding-like a troll gnashing its teeth in a cave-appalled Mr. Bhnh more than anything he’d seen all night. He took his leave gladly. Daniel had disembarked onto some ancient slime-covered stairs. He ascended, carefully, to the level of the Water Lane, which ran between the inner and outer fortifications. This had become the scene of a makeshift camp: several hundred Irish people at least were here, taking their ease on blankets or thin scatterings of straw, smoking pipes if they were lucky, playing hair-raising plaints on penny-whistles. No celebratory bonfires here: just a few brooding cook-fires setting kettle-bottoms aglow, and begrudging faint red warmth on the hands and faces of the squatters. There had to be a rational explanation for their being here, but Daniel could not conjure one up. But that was what made city life interesting.

Bob Shaftoe approached, harried by a couple of boys who were running around barefoot even though this was December. He ordered them away gruffly, even a bit cruelly, and as they turned to run off, Daniel got a look at one of their faces. He thought he saw a familial resemblance to Bob.

Sergeant Shaftoe was headed down the lane in the direction of the Byward Tower, which was the way out to London. Daniel fell into step beside him and in a few paces they’d left the water-engine far enough behind that they could talk without shouting.

“I was ready to set off without you,” Bob said somewhat bitterly.

“For where?”

“I don’t know. Castle Upnor.”

“He’s not there yet. I’d wager he’s still in London.”

“Let’s to Charing Cross, then,” Bob said, “as I think he has a house near there.”

“Can we get horses?”

“You mean, is the Lieutenant of the Tower going to supply you, an escaped prisoner, with a free horse-?”

“Never mind, there are other ways of getting down the Strand. Any news concerning Jeffreys?”

“I have impressed ‘pon Bob Carver the grave importance of his providing useful information to us concerning that man’s whereabouts,” Bob said. “I do not think his fear was affected; on the other hand, he has a short memory, and London contains many diversions to-night, most appealing to a man of his character.”

Passing through the Byward Tower they came out into the open and began to traverse the causeway over the moat: first a plank bridge that could be moved out of the way, then a stone ramp onto the permanent causeway. Here they encountered John Churchill, smoking a pipe in the company of two armed gentlemen whom Daniel recognized well enough that he could have recalled their names, had it been worth the effort. Churchill broke away from them when his eyes fell on Daniel, and pursued for a few steps, glaring at Bob Shaftoe in a way that meant “keep walking.” So Daniel ended up isolated in mid-causeway, face to face with Churchill.

“In truth I have no idea whether you’re about to embrace and thank me, or stab me and shove me into the moat,” Daniel blurted, because he was nervous, and too exhausted to govern his tongue.

Churchill appeared to take Daniel’s words with utmost gravity-Daniel reckoned he must’ve said something terribly meaningful, out of blind luck. Daniel had encountered Churchill many times at Whitehall, where he had always been surrounded by a sort of aura or nimbus of Import, of which his wig was only the innermost core. You could feel the man coming. He had never been more important than he was tonight-yet here on this causeway all that remained of his aura was his wig, which stood sore in need of maintenance. It was easy to see him as Sir Winston’s lad, a Royal Society whelp who had gone to sojourn in the world of affairs.

“So it’ll be for everyone, from now on,” Churchill said. “The old schemes by which we reckoned a man’s virtue have now been o’erthrown along with Absolute Monarchy. Your Revolution is pervasive. It is tricky, too. I don’t know whether you will run afoul of its tricks in the end. But if you do, it shall not be by my hand…”

“Your face seems to say, ‘ provided… ’ ”

“Provided you continue to be the enemy of my enemies-”

“Alas, I’ve little choice.”

“So you say. But when you walk through yonder gate,” Churchill said, pointing toward the Middle Tower at the end of the causeway, which was visible only as a crenellated cutout in the orange sky, “you’ll find yourself in a London you no longer know. The changes wrought by the Fire were nothing. In that London, loyalty and allegiance are subtle and fluxional. ’Tis a chessboard with not only black and white pieces, but others as well, in diverse shades. You’re a Bishop, and I’m a Knight, I can tell that much by our shapes, and the changes we have wrought on the board; but by fire-light ’Tis difficult to make out your true shade.”

“I have been awake for twenty-four hours and cannot follow your meaning when you speak in figures.”

“It is not that you are tired, but that you are a Puritan and a Natural Philosopher; neither group is admired for its grasp of the subtle and the ambiguous.”

“I am defenseless against your japes. But as we are not within earshot of anyone, please avail yourself of this opportunity to speak plainly.”

“Very well. I know many things, Mr. Waterhouse, because I make it my business to converse with fellows like those-we trade news as fervidly as traders swapping stocks on the ‘Change. And one thing I know is that Isaac Newton is in London to-night.”

It struck Daniel as bizarre that John Churchill should even know who Isaac was. Until Churchill continued, “Another thing I know is that Enoch turned up in our city a few days ago.”

“Enoch the Red?”

“Don’t act like an imbecile. It makes me distrustful, as I know you are not one.”

“I take such a dim view of the Art that my heart denies what my mind knows.”

“That is just the sort of thing you would say if you were one of them, and wished to hide it.”

“Ah. Now I perceive what you meant with your talk of chess-pieces and colors-you think I am hiding the red robes of an Alchemist beneath these weeds?! What a thought!”

“You’d have me just know that the notion is absurd? Pray tell, sir, how should I know it? I’m not learned as you are, I’ll admit it; but no one has yet accused me of being stupid. And I say to you that I do not know whether you are mixed up in Alchemy or no.”

“It is vexing to you,” Daniel thought aloud, “not to follow it.”

“More than that, it is alarming. In a given circumstance, I know what a soldier will do, what a Puritan will do, what a French cardinal or a Vagabond will do-certain ones excepted-but the motives of the esoteric brotherhood are occult to me, and I do not love that. And as I look forward to being a man of moment in the new order-”

“Yes, I know, I know.” Daniel sighed and tried to gather himself. “Really, I think you make too much of them. For never have you seen such a gaggle of frauds, fops, ninehammers, and mountebanks.”

“Which of these is Isaac Newton?”

The question was like a bung hammered into Daniel’s gob.

“What of King Charles II? Which was His Majesty, ninehammer or mountebank?”

“I have to go and talk to them anyway,” Daniel finally said.

“If you can penetrate that cloud, Mr. Waterhouse, I shall consider myself obliged to you.”

“ Howobliged?”

“What is on your mind?”

“If an earl dies on a night such as this, might it be overlooked?”